


Captain Swan Tumblr Prompts

by nowforruin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not Related, Snowed In, Tumblr Archive, Tumblr Prompt, one shots, proposal, tropes upon tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowforruin/pseuds/nowforruin
Summary: A master post of Captain Swan pieces originally posted to Tumblr, mostly from prompts. Not related, just one place to keep all the bits and pieces that don't always make it here.





	1. Snowed In

“No.” 

“Listen, darling, I’m not tickled by the idea either, but you’ve promised, and I’ve promised, so let’s just make the best of it, aye?” 

“Just… you deal with upstairs. I’ll deal with down here. Then we get the hell out of here.” Emma gestures toward the staircase, her hands forming sharp shooing motions. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Killian frowns at her, scrubbing the back of his neck with his palm, brows knit in irritation. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he sighs, resigned. “Just shout if you need anything.” 

Emma nods, turning her back on the world’s most irritating man and making her way into the kitchen, debating if she should plot her best friend’s murder first or Killian’s. 

It’s a hard choice. She despises Killian, he of the stupid leather coats that slide over his shoulder like melting butter, and the stupidly messy hair that perpetually screams he’s been freshly fucked, and the jeans that cling to his ass… and the irritating arrogance and certainty he’s always right. 

Yeah, he dies first. 

But then there’s also Emma’s supposed best friend who got her into this mess.

Come to the lake house for a long weekend. It’ll be fun. Relaxing. We might even get some snow. David’s invited a friend so you can’t even say you’ll just be a third wheel. 

Mary Margaret left out that the friend was none other than Killian Jones, perpetual pain in the ass. Not only that, but before even twenty four hours had gone by, all of a sudden David had some emergency back in Storybrooke that required them to leave immediately. 

Immediately, as in he had his coat on before the burner on the stove was even off with one foot halfway out the door. Her friends are bad liars to start, but then Mary Margaret had smiled as she pulled on her own coat. “I’m so sorry, Emma, but I’m sure Killian won’t mind giving you a ride home. You guys are welcome to stay up here tonight.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Emma replied instantly. 

“I’ll give the lass a ride home after we clean up,” Killian said at the same time, and damn him, but in that moment, his usual obnoxious good humor made Emma feel like a terrible human being for wanting to leave him alone with the responsibility of cleaning up their afternoon’s mess and waiting alone for the fire David had insisted on building up to die out.

Her friends didn’t wait for her to agree before they left, and now here she is, stuck with Jones, alone, in the middle of nowhere, Maine. It’s not fair. The lake house is beautiful, the iced over water shimmering in the muted winter light, the cheerful scent of woodsmoke on the air. It should be relaxing. 

Instead, Emma sets about cleaning up with a great deal of banging about. How the hell did David manage to create such a mess making one meal? It’s not like they even got the chance to enjoy it. 

Above, Killian’s footsteps echo across the floorboards as he moves about, stripping bedding and otherwise doing a completely thorough job of cleaning that really isn’t required after one night, but whatever. It keeps him occupied. 

Emma’s stomach growls with discontentment as she eyes the half-assembled meal. She doesn’t really want to spend anymore time here than needed, but she is hungry and that’s definitely not helping her mood. It’s a two hour drive home, and like it or not, she’s stuck with Jones. Food is probably a good idea. 

Of course, Killian comes downstairs as Emma is standing over the sink, tearing into a piece of chicken with her fingers. 

“We’re not in any rush,” he reminds her, his arms filled with sheets and one brow cocked at her greasy face. “These need to be washed before we leave, so you may as well sit down and have a proper meal, Swan.” 

“You’re washing all the sheets?” She groans, hanging her head between her fingers, blonde hair streaming around her face, which is just as well. If she looks at him now, she might stab him with the chicken bone. “You know we were here for one freaking night, right?” 

“Aye, but they may invite other guests the next time, and-” 

“Just wash the sheets.” Emma doesn’t look up, swallowing as much of her irritation as she can manage. He’s not wrong. Mary Margaret and David do have other friends. They don’t have anywhere to be tonight. Killian is driving, so if he wants to subject himself to the dark as hell, windy, twisty roads that lead back to Storybrooke, why does she care? 

His footsteps fade as he walks toward the back of the house, the hum of the washer beginning before long. By the time he’s come back to the kitchen, Emma has made up two plates of something resembling dinner out of the pieces David had started. 

“If we’re going to be here for a while, I’m opening a bottle of wine,” she says, holding the second plate out as the peace offering it is. 

It’s entirely possible Emma’s temper gets the better of her when she’s hungry and faced with spending alone time with Killian Jones. It’s also possible she could be a little nicer since they’re stuck together now, like it or not. 

It’s entirely possible Emma doesn’t want to be alone with him and his stupidly blue eyes because she might do something stupid, like admit that maybe she doesn’t hate him quite as much as she lets on. That maybe underneath all that annoyance with his smug charm and irritation with his corny jokes is an attraction she’s been doing her best to ignore for the last two years. 

Killian’s fingers brush against hers as he takes the plate, and Emma’s life isn’t a god damn romance novel, but she still has to fight the shiver that wants desperately to run down her spine. His hands are warm, and there’s calluses on his fingers from working down on the docks. 

Naturally, she snatches her hand back the instant he’s gotten hold of the plate and jams it in her pocket. 

“I know you like red, but I don’t, so I’m opening the white. I can open the red for you too, if you think it’s worth it with having to drive later. David also brought up some beer, and-” 

“Emma.” He saves her from herself by setting the plate on the table and opening the fridge. “Have the wine. I’ll sort myself out.” 

Not knowing what to say, Emma just nods, spending an unnecessary amount of time finding a glass for her wine, fishing out a corkscrew, battling the cork, and pouring the glass. 

Killian eyes her dubiously when she finally brings her plate and glass to the table. “I know you Americans have some absurd notions about consuming alcoholic beverages, but is it necessary to subject the poor wine to a bloody pint glass?” 

“Yes,” she shoots back matter of factly, taking a swig off the glass like it’s some cheap draft beer on special just because she can. “I don’t know where the wine glasses got moved to. A glass is a glass.” He opens his mouth to argue, but Emma beats him to it, her own eyes narrowing. “So help me, Jones, if you start giving me some bullshit lecture about the notes of the wine, or the bouquet, or some other nonsense, I will dump this glass on your head.” 

“Waste of a perfectly nice wine, that.” 

“I bought this wine. It was four dollars. I’m willing to sacrifice it to the cause.” 

“The cause?” 

“Shutting you up.” 

She expects his annoyance, his brows to furrow together like they always do when she’s said something that gets under his skin, but instead he leans back in his chair and laughs. It’s a deep, content laugh, a noise she’s never really heard from him before. Usually when he laughs at her, there’s something brittle about it, just a tiny bit forced, like he’s trying very hard to present a certain version of himself that isn’t exactly accurate. 

“Touche, Swan.” He leans forward enough to clink his beer bottle against the edge of her pint glass, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. 

She surprises herself by smiling back. 

They eat in silence, but it’s a comfortable quiet. The back of the house is practically all glass, wide windows looking out over the lake. It’s so tranquil, a perfect winter postcard from Maine, that it takes Emma awhile to realize it’s started to snow. 

“Was it supposed to snow today?” she asks Killian, when he comes back from putting the next load of sheets into the wash, reaching in her pocket for her phone. Service is terrible up here, but at least Mary Margaret finally had wifi installed. 

“An inch or so, last I checked.” 

Emma groans as she opens the weather app, cursing Mary Margaret all over again. “When was that? Because now it says way more than an inch.” 

Rather than take out his own phone, Killian leans over her shoulder, one hand braced on the back of her chair. He’s close enough that she can smell him now, the subtle spice of his cologne and the softer, clean scent of soap. “Yesterday morning, it did not say that.” 

The thing is, he doesn’t really sound upset, but instead almost… happy. 

“We need to leave now if we’re getting home tonight.” Emma shoves the phone back in her pocket, getting to her feet so quickly she all but crashes into Killian. He reaches to steady her automatically, his grip firm and warm, and it’s all she can do to clumsily regain her balance. 

“It may be best we spend the night.” He steps back, anticipating her reaction, and scratches behind his ear without meeting her eye. “I’ve just put another set of sheets in the wash, and it’ll be at least an hour before they’re done. It’ll be full dark by then, and if the storm is truly going to be that bad…” He shrugs, and when his eyes finally meet hers, there’s a sheepish delight dancing in them. “Sorry, love.” 

Emma is positive he isn’t the least bit sorry, but what she can’t figure out is why. It’s almost as if he wants to be stuck up here with her, but that doesn’t make any sense at all. 

Thrown off by his behavior, she turns her back on him and retrieves the bottle of wine from the fridge to top off her pint glass. Killian watches her, then shrugs before reaching into the cabinet above her head. 

He proceeds to pull out a wine glass – David must have put them up there for some stupid reason, because there’s no way short Mary Margaret did – and empties his beer into it. “Cheers, love.” 

Killians laughs again when she just stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Wine in a pint glass for you. Beer in a wine glass for me.” 

“Is everything a joke to you?” Emma snaps, the momentary peace between them forgotten. This is what makes her insane about him – he’s always got to make a joke at her expense. Emma isn’t exactly the adultiest adult out there, but she’s fine with her messy life just the way it is. She doesn’t need Killian to constantly point out her failings. 

His good humor vanishes in an instant at her sharp tone. He leans back against the kitchen cabinets, scrubbing his palm over his face before looking back up at her. “Forgive me, Swan. I thought perhaps for once we were simply having a nice time together.” 

She wants to fire back. It’s easy. They’ve done it before a million times – but Killian’s voice isn’t sharp and mocking the way it’s been so many times in the past. He just sounds… sad. 

“I’ll go get us some more wood for the fire before the snow gets any worse,” he says when she doesn’t respond, carefully setting down his wine glass full of beer. 

“Killian…” 

He’s only gotten two steps away, but he turns slowly, his hands shoved in his pockets as he waits. There’s something horribly honest in his expression, his weariness noticeable in a way Emma hasn’t really seen before – or maybe just hasn’t paid attention to. Faint purple smudges under his eyes, tension in his jaw and shoulders, and his eyes don’t quite meet hers when he looks up. 

“Be careful,” she finally says, glancing out the windows at the swirling snow. It’s a stupid thing to say. The wood is stacked in a shed not twenty paces from the house’s front door, but it’s the only thing Emma could come up with. 

He nods, grabbing his leather jacket from the hook by the door and shrugging into it. The door falls shut behind him, quiet as a whisper, and Emma’s chest is suddenly, inexplicably tight. 

“Idiot,” she mutters under her breath, closing her eyes and tipping back her glass. She isn’t sure if she’s talking about herself or Killian. 

Needing a distraction, she returns to cleaning up the kitchen, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the sink each time the door opens as Killian makes a few trips to collect wood, stacking it neatly beside the woodstove. Each blast of cold air stings her exposed skin, the scent of snow and ice heavy on the air. The wine helps, a pleasant warmth extending into her limbs the more she drinks, but she goes upstairs to get a pair of wool socks anyway. 

Killian has already been through her room, the mattress stripped bare with the quilt neatly folded at the bottom. It’s the only neat thing about the space, Emma’s clothes strewn across the armchair in one corner and the floor. Hopefully it’s her sheets in the dryer, because she really doesn’t want to deal with remaking the bed later. All she wants is her wool socks and a spot in front of the fire with enough wine to make it through the night without getting into it with Killian again. 

Telling herself he’ll be cold when he’s finally done bringing in the wood, she stops in his room for dry clothes. She feels a little stupid once she’s there – Killian is capable of walking up the single flight of stairs by himself to get dry socks – but she’s attempting to do something nice, dammit. 

Snow clings to his eyelashes when he finally shrugs out of his coat, his hands red and chapped from the cold. “Where are your gloves?” Emma chides him as he takes a seat next to her on the couch, scowling over the rim of her glass. “Even I wear gloves in this weather.” 

His smile is sheepish, small as it is. “I forgot them.” 

Before she can stop herself, Emma reaches for him, chafing his hands between hers in an attempt to warm them. Killian’s face may be flushed from the cold, but Emma’s quickly heats up as well as her skin rubs against his, bringing warmth back into his fingers. 

“Emma…” 

Something in the way he says her name stops her, hands falling still as he shifts his weight on the couch. His voice is low, soft, and his fingers weave through hers as she stills, the wine blunting her surprise just enough that she doesn’t resist despite her heart hammering away madly against her ribs. 

“I brought down your socks,” she says, her eyes skittering over to the pile of fabric on the table. “I’m sure yours are all wet since you didn’t bring snow boots, and if you get sick, I’m going to have to drive your truck, and-” 

His lips are gentle, tentative on the first touch, but then one of his hands loosens from hers to settle firmly on the back of her neck. The moment she responds, the kiss changes, no longer soft but instead full of need and intense, burning desire. 

Killian tastes like rum. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind where thoughts still make sense, Emma realizes he must have been drinking from that damn flask he always carries around. Did he plan this? Did he decide he was going to come inside and kiss her, and-  
Her thoughts short circuit as he groans low in his throat, tugging Emma onto his lap. His fingers are still cold as they splay across the small of her back under her shirt. She can’t help but jump at the touch, her breath catching, and Killian’s grip tightens. 

“Bloody hell, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he mumbles against her ear, his breath hot and voice hoarse. His teeth nip at the sensitive skin along her throat, delicate kisses following each sting as he works his way down. 

It’s not so much a question as an inchorrent set of syllables that leaves Emma’s mouth in a breathless rush, struggling to get her bearings as sensation overwhelms her. His thighs are hard beneath hers, his skin soft where she’s worked open the first button of his shirt without quite realizing what she’s done. “How long?” she finally manages to get out, too caught up to care there’s a tremor in the question. 

Killian leans back, making a point of looking her in the eye. “Years,” he says quietly, his thumb stroking her bare skin beneath her shirt. 

“Years?” Her breath catches as his hand moves, his thumb dipping below the waistband of her jeans to stroke her hip. “That can’t be true. You’ve–” 

He cuts her off with another kiss, silencing what was about to be a litany of his sins over the last several years. “I didn’t think I had a chance,” he confesses as he pulls back against, burying his face in her hair as Emma smoothes her hands over his shoulders beneath the open neck of his shirt. “I see now instead of trying to make you laugh, I should have just done this.” 

Emma has never really been good with words, and she’s so surprised she’s mostly just running on instinct here, so she kisses him again, humming some sort of agreement. She still sort of hates him a little – if she’d only known that the inconvenient lusting hadn’t been one sided, maybe she wouldn’t have been so cranky every time he tried to tease her – but the feeling is lost in a sea of relief and excitement. 

Outside, the snow falls, delicate flakes giving way to a howling storm and frigid winds. Neither Emma nor Killian notice, utterly wrapped up in one another in front of the fire. By unspoken agreement, they don’t rush, savoring each kiss, each touch, each glorious assurance that there is nothing one-sided about their attraction. 

It isn’t until morning that Emma bothers to look at her phone again, fishing it out of the pile of her clothes on the floor next to Killian’s bed while he’s still asleep, his arm snug around her waist and chest warm at her back. She feels a bit guilty for not texting Mary Margaret last night with the snow to tell her friend they decided to stay the night after all – Mary Margaret is the mother hen on the group. She’s bound to be worried. 

Except when Emma opens her phone, there’s a flood of messages in the group text with Mary Margaret, Elsa, and Ruby. She starts to grin as she scrolls through the texts, snuggling back into Killian’s arms as he begins to stir. 

“Something funny, love?” he murmurs against her skin, his accent thicker than she’s ever heard it, sleep clinging to every syllable. He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, then another to her throat. 

“She did it on purpose. To win a bet.” Emma should be angry, but it’s hard to care when this is where Mary Margaret’s scheme has landed her – in Killian’s bed, his naked body wrapped around hers, his rather talented fingers dancing over her hip in the muted morning light, the last of the snow falling outside the window in delicate, soft flakes. 

“Hmm?” 

Emma tosses the phone back into her pile of clothes, turning in Killian’s arms with a delicious shiver as his kisses turn purposeful, his touch firmer. “Mary Margaret. She bet the girls if she left us alone together, we wouldn’t even make it a night.” 

“Smart lass.” 

“She doesn’t know she’s won yet.” 

“No more talking about other women in my bed, Swan.” Killian’s mock scolding is followed with a firm squeeze high on her thigh, his fingertips brushing the curve of her bottom. “In fact, no more talking.” 

It’s two days later before they make it home, every muscle in Emma’s body pleasantly sore, her nerves tingling with the ghost of Killian’s touch. He kisses her outside her door when he drops her off, a kiss that leaves her panting and desperately wishing he wasn’t already likely to be late for work. 

She doesn’t even care when Elsa comes around the corner, a knowing smirk on her lips as they both watch Killian walk away. “I guess she really did win.” Elsa’s eyes dance merrily as Emma flushes. “I thought for sure you’d make it one night, but by the looks of it…” 

“I don’t think we made it two hours.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

Elsa laughs, pulling out her phone as she follows Emma into her apartment. “Well, I guess Ruby won then.” 

“What?” 

“Mary Margaret said you guys wouldn’t make it a night. I said you were too stubborn, but he’d make pancakes in the morning and that would get you. Ruby said you wouldn’t even make it upstairs.” Elsa raises one delicate brow, her thumbs hovering over the phone screen. “The way that man kissed you… Ruby won.” 

Emma just gapes at her friend at first, attempting to be offended. Was it really that obvious to everyone except her and Killian all this time? She doesn’t bother to ask. It must have been. 

So she nods, a flush climbing into her cheeks. “Yeah, Ruby won. Tell her she can at least buy me a grilled cheese with her winnings before she shows up asking for details.” Emma grins, wicked memories dancing through her thoughts. “I didn’t really have much time to eat the last few days, after all.”


	2. Work Injuries

"It’s not my fault.”

 

Killian’s eyebrow jumps toward his hairline before the words have even left her mouth, his lips curving into a familiar grin. He shakes his head slightly, pushing open the door to the cramped, cluttered office at his brother’s bar and gesturing for her to sit down.

 

Not that he needs to. Emma is here often enough. Not just here, at the bar, taking shameless advantage of the free booze, but _here_ , in the office, Killian muttering about his brother’s messy habits as he digs out a first aid kit.

 

“Never is, is it, love?”

 

Emma huffs with feigned annoyance, gingerly easing herself down onto the desk pushed against the wall, but the blood on her jeans is another story. “Seriously, these are my favorite jeans.”

 

“So it’s the clothing’s fault?”

 

“It’s the ice’s fault,” she grumbles as he takes a seat, gently taking hold of her booted foot. She does her best to swallow her wince, but it doesn’t matter how carefully he eases the zipper down or how slowly he peels back the knee-high leather. It hurts like hell.

 

“The ice.” There’s the eyebrow again, this time with a healthy dose of mockery. Pausing in his attempt to remove her boot from her already swelling ankle, Killian reaches around her for the bottle of rum resting on the desk, using his teeth to pull the cork free before holding it up. “The very same ice that graces the sidewalks of our fine city every January?”

 

Emma rolls her eyes, taking the offered rum and swigging deeply. The liquor sends a shot of warmth through her limbs almost instantly, and she swallows another gulp, hoping it will help ease the pain in her ankle and knee. “It’s just going to get worse. You might as well take it off now before we have to cut it off.”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“No, but it’s going to take too long for me to get drunk enough to be sure, so just do it.” Her response is punctuated by another dose of rum.

 

Killian sighs, firmly grasping the heel of the boot. It takes some cursing on his part, what with only having the one hand to navigate the removal of the offending footwear, but with Emma’s clumsy help he eventually gets the thing off.

 

Her ankle is already turning some interesting colors.

 

“How did it happen this time?” he asks, fishing around in the first air kit for supplies.

 

“This time?” Emma wants to roll her eyes again, but really, she’d only be rolling them at herself.

 

“Aye, this time, Swan. It’s the third time this month I’ve patched you up. Not that i don’t enjoying seeing you and all, but perhaps we could skip the bloody bits just once, hmm?” He glances up, and there’s a fraction of a moment where his easygoing ribbing fades into real concern, his brows knitting together, but then it’s gone. “I think you’d better take the jeans off before the ankle swells anymore.”

 

“What, not even dinner first?”

 

To Emma’s great surprise, the tips of Killian’s ears go scarlet in an instant. “I merely meant that it would be difficult… bloody hell, Emma. I didn’t mean _that_.”

 

“Why not?”

 

It takes a second for her to register she’s asked the question out loud, Killian going completely still with his hand still on her foot, her sock halfway off. He breathes out all at once, a rush of warm air across her bare skin, and it’s not really going to help matters, but Emma gulps down another sip of rum anyway.

 

The silence grows charged the longer it lasts, and god dammit, why did she say it? Killian has been her friend for years. He always patches her up when she does something stupid, teasing her the entire time but knowing she can’t really afford to go to the ER as often as she manages to hurt herself. Sure, they’ve flirted, but never in a meaningful way. It’s safer being friends.

 

But it doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about it, and by the tension in him, it’s plain Killian’s thought about it, too.

 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, shifting in order to pull her foot back. “I… that was a dumb thing of me to say.”

 

“Emma.” His voice is rough, and though his grip is gentle on her foot, he doesn’t let go as she starts to pull away. When he finally looks up, it’s with a fierce longing she’s never seen in him before. “I think maybe that’s enough rum. It’s quiet tonight. I can run you home. Why don’t you text Elsa? Liam said she’d be home tonight. I’m certain she’ll come upstairs and-”

 

He’s babbling, and of all the things Killian does that straddle the line between adorable and maybe a little annoying, he’s not a babbler. “It’s not the rum,” Emma manages to force herself to say, despite the white knuckle grip she has on the bottle. “Okay, so maybe it’s a little the rum, because I don’t think I’d have said it without the rum, but I’d have meant it. Without the rum. I do mean it.”

 

“That you’d like me to ravage you when you’ve just injured yourself?” The redness only deepens in his cheeks, but his voice is lighter, Killian’s usual teasing lilt easing back into place.

 

“Endorphins are good for pain?”

 

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that washes through Emma like it always does, settling right between her thighs with aching desire. “You do know how to tempt a man.” It’s said lightly, but an undercurrent zips along each word, his fingers curling around her bare foot. “Though I still think it best we get you home, and-”

 

“What?” Okay, that’s _definitely_ the rum, but Emma takes a hasty swallow anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that. “Are you serious?”

 

“Swan, you’ve had near a quarter of that bottle on what I’m certain is an empty stomach. You’ve bloodied and ripped your jeans and an ankle near the size of a grapefruit. What sort of gentleman would-”

 

“Killian.” She waits for him to look up, steadying herself in preparation for the onslaught of those stupidly blue eyes of his. The look he gives her still slams into every nerve ending, and the words fly out of her mouth. It’s all Emma can do to stare at him helplessly, the sudden revelation that maybe all the feelings she’s very firmly told herself she doesn’t have because they couldn’t possibly be reciprocated just might be reciprocated after all a little too much for her tipsy, pained brain to grasp.

 

It’s hard to say what happens next, how she goes from sitting on the desk to sitting on Killian’s thigh, her arms around his neck, his fingers tangled in her hair, but one thing is for certain – it’s definitely her fault.


	3. Proposal

Of all the ways to find out the love of your life is headed to the hospital, the police scanner is Emma’s least favorite, and if Killian Jones is still alive when she gets to him, she’s going to kill him herself.

 

She doesn’t remember the drive. She’s positive she broke more laws than she can count, even if she is driving with the lights flashing in a cop car. Let someone try to call her out on this. Maybe it isn’t official police business, but it _is_ an emergency.

 

David is already at the hospital when Emma comes racing through the doors. “Emma,” he says calmly as she all but runs into the emergency room, his hands settling firmly on her biceps to keep her from going any further. “Emma, it’s all right. He’s going to be fine.”

 

“Did the doctor say that?” She swallows hard, adrenaline and panic hitting an abrupt wall in the face of David’s assurances. It’s not like her brother to lie to her, but he already thinks of Killian as family. If he’s not upset, it’s probably fine. Maybe.

 

David nods, his grip on her arms loosening when it becomes clear she’s not going to bolt into the depths of the hospital searching for Killian. “A couple of broken bones, but he’ll make a full recovery.”

 

“What the hell happened?” Emma demands, her worry morphing into anger. “You were supposed to be there!”

“I was there.”

 

“Seriously? Why the hell did I hear about this on the freaking scanner then?”

 

“He asked me not to call you until we knew-”

 

“Since when do you listen to his crap ideas?”

 

David sighs, but instead of stepping back, he folds his arms around her in a loose hug. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Can I see him?”

 

“Are you going to yell?”

 

“Yeah, probably.”

 

“Don’t be too hard on him.”

 

“He nearly got himself killed.”

 

“That’s being a little dramatic.”

 

Emma pushes back from her brother with a huff, ignoring the teasing smile he shoots her. Killian must be fine if David is cracking jokes, broken bones or not, but she still doesn’t really find any of this funny, nor does she quite understand how a fishing trip turned into a hospital visit before midday.

 

“The sail got stuck, Em. It was an accident.”

 

But Emma isn’t listening, because Dr. Whale is walking toward her. He seems relaxed, also a good sign, but it’s his job to delivery shitty news to loved ones. Today, that’s Emma.

 

“Emma, you can come with me. I’m sure you want to see him.” Whale starts walking back toward the labyrinth of rooms, talking as they go. She’s grateful he’s not putting on the classic patient routine with her – they’ve known each other too long, and she probably couldn’t handle it. Everyone keeps telling her Killian is fine, but until she sees that stupid, smug smile of his with her own eyes, she won’t really believe it.

 

“We’ve got him on pain medication. They’ve just finished setting his leg, so he’s going to be out of it. I’d prefer to keep an eye on him overnight since David said he hit his head, but you should be able to take him home tomorrow.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Whale leaves her at the door, and the moment Emma lays eyes on Killian, the last of the adrenaline bottoms out and her eyes well with sharp, stinging tears. “You’re an idiot,” she manages to get out as Killian looks up, tears pouring down her cheeks. She sniffles, hard, and all but falls into the chair at his side. “Reckless, stupid-”

 

“I love you too, Swan.” His eyes are hazy with medication or pain, perhaps both, but Killian reaches for her hand and weaves his fingers through hers. He’s got one leg in a cast, propped up on pillows, and thick, white bandages circle his chest. “No need to cry, love. I’m perfectly fine.”

 

“You almost died.”

 

He has the nerve to grin up at her, that damn eyebrow of his still arching perfectly. “I’m not that easy to kill. Just a little tumble.”

 

“Stop it!” Emma is too upset to crack jokes, and she doesn’t care someone will yell at her for it as she abandons her chair to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. It’s all she can do not to throw herself into his arms, press her cheek to his chest, and listen to his heartbeat simply to assure herself he’s alive and well. “I thought… when I heard on the scanner… and you told David not to call me! I could have lost you, and-”

 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.” His grip tightens, and he’s definitely got broken ribs, but he tugs her closer anyway, gingerly wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders. Emma _hates_ crying, hates this display of emotion, but she can’t seem to stop. Maybe it’s just relief now that has her crying big, ugly tears, her fingers fisted in the thin hospital gown. Killian doesn’t even smell right in this hospital bed, antiseptic overpowering nearly everything else.

 

“Don’t you dare pull this sort of shit again.” She’s begging more than threatening, and god, who is this woman she’s turning into right now? What happened to the Emma Swan that could bottle her emotions up forever and ever? What has Killian done to her?

 

“I’ll do my very best.”

 

His fingers are soothing in her hair, gently stroking through the tangles as her tears finally slow. Emma forces herself to sit up, wiping at her swollen eyes with one hand. The other refuses to let go of him. “I’m not sorry I cried all over you,” she tells him, voice still shaky. “I’m not sorry for calling you an idiot either.”

 

“I shall look forward to your scoldings for the rest of my life, love.” Now that she’s calmer, she can hear the effect of the drugs in his voice, the slight slurring of his words. It’s how he sounds sometimes late at night, when they should have already gone to sleep but kept each other awake anyway – except it’s not quite, because he’s in pain, and it’s not so much sleepy as drugged.

 

Which has to be why he’s talking about the rest of his life, right?

 

Except maybe it’s not just the drugs, because Emma hasn’t forgotten that weird visit from Will Scarlet a few weeks ago where he asked her if she knew what a princess cut was and then jammed a bunch of different rings on her fingers before disappearing without an explanation.

 

She hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up, especially since weeks have gone by since that odd encounter, and the timing is all wrong, but what if Killian _had_ died? What if he was too badly hurt to even know she’s next to him, gripping his hand with all she’s got, because she can’t fathom a life without him.

 

“The rest of your life?” Emma finally finds the courage to ask. The answer scares her, but not for the reasons it might have once – she’s more afraid of what he _won’t_ say then what he will. She takes a deep breath, watching him as she asks, “Is that why you sent Will?”

 

He chuckles quietly, his grip tightening on her hand. “Figured that out, did you?” She doesn’t expect him to sound nervous of all things, his thumb absently sweeping across the inside of her wrist.

 

Despite herself, she laughs. “He’s as subtle as a two by four, that one.”

 

“Aye.” Killian’s tongue darts out, moistening his bottom lip, and Emma lets go of his hand long enough to pour him a glass of water. He takes it with a nod of thanks, leaning back once she takes the plastic cup back. “I thought he’d do nicely.”

 

“Nicely?” Emma can’t help but fidget. It’s a good nervous, she tells herself. This might actually be happening. Maybe. “Do what nicely?”

 

“Reconnaissance.” He winks at her – well, he tries to wink at her, but the poor man is exhausted. Emma wants him to keep talking, wants to know what, exactly, he’s done with the information he sent Will for, but with the edge taken off her fear of losing him, reason and logic are making a solid argument for letting him sleep.

 

She leans forward, her lips pressing to his forehead, and Killian watches her through heavy lids as she pulls back. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow,” she all but whispers, running her fingers through his hair. “Get some sleep.”

 

“I should ask. Should I ask?”

 

Emma sucks in a breath, forcing herself to let it out again slowly. He’s not going to ask right this minute. Not in a hospital bed, half-asleep, in pain, and high on painkillers. He probably has a ring. He’ll want to do this right, knowing Killian. Something romantic. Flowers. It will probably be cheesy, and she’ll probably roll her eyes, but she’ll say yes.

 

“You should ask,” she finally manages to say, her throat tight with emotion as she presses her fingers against his lips. “But not now. Now you need to sleep and get better, because Killian? When you ask, I’m going to say yes. I’m going to say yes, and then I’m not going to say much of anything, because I’m going to be doing other things with my mouth.”

 

He nips playfully at her fingers, but he’s fading fast. His eyes crack open once more, happiness and love drowning out the pain. It only takes the slightest tug on her hand to bring her to him, the kiss they share gentle and lingering, full of promise.

 

“Now?” he murmurs against her lips. He’s teasing – he has to be by the playfulness of the question, but it doesn’t change the slight slur in the word.

 

“Probably not something you ask on morphine,” she forces herself to say, the words gentle even as her fingers sift through his hair, pushing it back from his brow. 

 

He’s asleep before he can argue with her.

 

“Now?” he asks when he wakes up, still groggy, still in pain. Emma only shakes her head, blinking rapidly and vowing she is not going to cry again.

 

“Now?” he asks again once she’s gotten him home the next day and settled in bed, his pain pills already in her hand.

 

Emma scowls at him with all the fierceness she can muster while fighting the urge to laugh. “Take your vicodin.”

 

It’s two month later when she wakes up to the scent of breakfast, Killian’s side of the bed cool. “Killian?” she calls, stretching lazily before rolling onto his side of the bed and pressing her face into his pillow. “Come back to bed.”

 

“I made breakfast.” His protest carries from the kitchen, something just slightly off in his tone. It isn’t until she looks up a minute later and finds him the doorway with a tray, his eyes shining, that her heart starts to race. He walks slowly, the cast only having come off his leg a few days ago, and Emma wants to scold him for not using his crutches, but her throat is too tight to speak. “Now,” is all he says as he carefully sits on the edge of the mattress and sets the tray down on her legs.

 

She says yes before she even glances down – before she sees the two plates of steaming french toast with the fresh strawberries and undoubtedly homemade whipped cream. Before she sees the ring nestled in a tiny bowl of fresh yellow rose petals, the diamonds sparking in the morning light streaming through the windows.

 

Killian’s hand darts out, his fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist before she can reach for the ring. “Swan, you made me wait all these months to ask. You’ll bloody well wait until i ask.” He’s grinning though, practically vibrating with happiness as he laces their fingers together.

 

“Ask then,” she retorts, the words unexpectedly thick, but she’s smiling so hard her face hurts already.

 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I had a speech. It was a good speech, but looking at you now, you’re so bloody beautiful I can’t remember a single word.” He hesitates, squeezing her hand once more. He has to know she’s going to say yes – she’s already blurted it out – but he’s still nervous, and god help her, it just makes her love him a little bit more. “Emma Swan, will you marry me?”

 

“Yes,” she whispers, losing her battle with the tears slipping down her cheeks as he slides the ring onto her finger. “Yes, yes, yes.”

 

Killian’s eyes dance with mischief when she finally looks up. “Now?”


End file.
